


Of Desks and Corsets

by bluebeholder



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (SO MUCH DADDY KINK), Daddy Kink, Desk Sex, Historically Accurate Sexual Slang, Historically Accurate Undergarments, Lingerie, M/M, What did you expect from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 05:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12101367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Credence makes the mistake of working late. Mr. Graves is rather disappointed...he had plans for tonight.Fortunately, Credence's desk is just as good a place to enact those plans as any.





	Of Desks and Corsets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writingramblr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/gifts).



> I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING WITH MY LIFE ANYMORE.
> 
> I salute my enabler. <3

It’s late in the Misuse of No-Maj Artifacts office and Credence is exhausted, but he really can’t quit just yet. The current case he’s working on isn’t the sort of thing that the Auror Office will need to handle, unless it goes badly, and Credence would rather like this one credited to him. He glares at the crate in the corner, rustling and whispering. “I think whoever enchanted the lot of you should be hexed thoroughly.”

They don’t exactly know who’s responsible yet, but oh well. Credence looks back down at the form, which details how the scarves packed into that crates got confiscated and affected No-Majs were Obliviated. They still have no idea who was responsible for the enchanting of the scarves, which means Credence will be doing major legwork tomorrow. He sighs and drifts into a vague daze, scanning the form and making notes wherever there’s something he’ll need to follow up tomorrow.

The door slamming open startles Credence so badly he throws the pen he’s holding at the door, narrowly missing Percival’s cheek as the Director of Magical Security strides into Credence’s little office. “Why are you still here?” Percival demands.

“I’m _working_?” Credence says, raising his brows. “I thought you were doing the same!”

“We were going home at six,” Percival says, shutting the door behind him. “It is eight o’clock, the building is empty, and you are still at your desk.”

Credence eyes Percival as he flicks his wand, sending all the paperwork fluttering off to its correct locations in the various pigeon-holes and files that clutter this tiny office he now gets to call his own. Getting a promotion does have its perks. “We have scarves _strangling_ people, Percival. I know that’s normally your department, but this time it’s my job...”

Percival leans on the desk, palms flat against the wood, looking down at Credence. “And how many times,” he asks, a faintly playful purr in his stern voice, “have I come home at your request when I was otherwise busy on a major case?”

“Not often enough.”

“Here’s the thing,” Percival says. “Tonight was on a time limit. I had something...particular that I was _planning_ to show you, but since you won’t come home...we’ll just have to do it here.” He turns and locks the door with a flick of his wand before draping his long coat and blue scarf over the back of Credence’s extra chair. And then, methodically, he pulls off his suit jacket. Credence stares, dry-mouthed, suddenly getting an inkling of _what_ , exactly, Percival had planned.

The whispering in the crate is escalating and Percival pauses, giving it a look. “The scarves,” Credence explains. “There’s about fifty of them. Activate when they’re around someone’s neck, and getting them off before they strangle the wearer is a chore and a half. We’ve got twenty No-Majs in the hospital right now, several dozen had to be Obliviated…”

“…are you sure that shouldn’t come up to the Auror Office?”

“If you take my case away again you’ll be sleeping on the couch for a week.”

Percival laughs. “Duly noted.” He aims his wand at the crate. “Silencio. There, now we’ll have some peace.”

Credence tilts his head a bit. “Peace? You’re the one who came in here shouting.”

At that, Percival eyes Credence, looking particularly hungry. “Perhaps I should have said…no interruptions.”

Fire stokes in Credence’s belly. He leans forward, elbows on his desk. “Don’t let me interrupt you, then…”

Carefully, Percival drapes his suit coat over the back of the same chair, leaving him in waistcoat and shirt sleeves. It looks good on him. And then he pulls the buttons on the waistcoat free, one by one, revealing his white shirt. So many of the employees of MACUSA wear fashionable colored shirts and suits and ties—not Percival, never Percival. He dresses as if he’s going to dinner in a white shirt and black tie, his only concession to day dress the black waistcoat that he’s now sliding from his shoulders to set down over the back of the chair.

“How much are you taking off?” Credence teases lightly.

Percival gives him a look. “Everything,” he says. He takes off his tie, undoing the knot with care, coiling it and setting it on Credence’s desk. And then he starts unbuttoning his shirt, too. Credence thinks his eyes are going to fall out of his head.

But then Percival stops, a thoughtful expression coming over him. He lets go of his collar, which is the attached style he’s only recently acquiesced to wearing. “What are you doing?” Credence asks.

“Close your eyes,” Percival says.

Obediently, Credence does as he’s told. He hears the sounds of shifting fabric, of buttons coming free and plackets unfastening, and shoes ceremoniously removed. Credence can remember exactly one time that Percival had been so overcome that he tore off his clothes without care, and though it’s a fond memory he finds himself tantalized by the fact that Percival is taking his damn time with this.

Finally, Percival says, “Go ahead, take a look.”

Credence opens his eyes.

He blinks.

He has to blink very hard again.

“My _God_ ,” he finally says, in a strangled voice.

Percival positively smirks.

And he’s got every right to do it. Credence was just thinking how good Percival looks in black and white—he needs to revise that image, _immediately_ , because there’s Percival in front of him in _lavender_ , in a corset and garters, most of his skin bare except for silk that curves around his hips and outlines the vague shape of his cock which is beginning to look hard, and—“ _Fuck_.”

“Like it?” Percival just about _purrs_. He doesn’t strike a pose, that would be ridiculous. Just standing there he’s enough to make Credence explode.

Credence has to work to get more words out. He’s pretty sure that he’s about to ruin his damn pants if he’s not careful. “ _Yes_. Where did you _get_ this idea?”

“I know what you like,” Percival says. He tilts Credence’s face up with a single finger under his chin, running his thumb over Credence’s bottom lip. It makes Credence shiver. “Did I hit the mark?”

“The last corset I saw was enchanted to make a woman into a siren,” Credence says hoarsely. “I don’t think you need that.”

Percival smirks. “Good to know,” he says. “Now…here’s the question. Are you going to have your wicked way with me while I’m wearing this…or are you planning to get me out of it?”

“Right here?”

“Your desk,” Percival says deliberately, “is as good as mine.”

It’s good to know, Credence thinks, as he shoves his chair back and yanks off his jacket with much less ceremony than Percival had shown for his clothes, that he can still blush. Apparently just thinking about the escapades they’d gotten up to in Percival’s office after things had first been sorted out is enough to send him cherry red.

Percival turns as Credence rounds the desk, letting Credence crowd against him, hands planted on the desk, bracketing Percival between his arms. Percival tangles his fingers in Credence’s increasingly long hair and drags Credence in for a kiss. Credence tilts his head to find a good angle, licking at Percival’s lips and tongue, gasping a little when Percival turns the tables and bites at Credence’s lip.

“Are you,” Percival asks, between kisses pressed to Credence’s jaw and down his neck, “going to take me out of this thing or not?”

“Can you still breathe?” Credence asks, resettling his hands on Percival’s hips. The man’s whole figure is held in by the corset; under his thumbs, Credence can feel the way it just slightly cuts into Percival’s hips. He traces the line and Percival shivers.

“No, but—ah—not because of the corset.”

“Good. I’m not taking you out of it.”

Percival lets go of Credence for a moment to drop his hands and undo Credence’s collar, pulling the tie free and dropping it aside. Then he’s got the shirt open, and ducks to nip at Credence’s throat.

Credence hisses—Percival isn’t gentle, he knows what Credence likes—and runs his hands up Percival’s sides, appreciating the soft stiffness of the corset, a fragile thing holding Percival in check. He’s restricted, held still, and it’s indescribably hot to know that Credence controls everything about him right now, that Percival is letting him do whatever he wants.

“I can’t feel you,” Percival says, raising his head and scowling. “I know you’re touching me, but—”

“So I should go a little lower, is what you’re saying,” Credence says, and before Percival can object Credence sinks down to his knees, leaving his hands on Percival’s thighs, his thumbs hooked in the garters holding up the stockings— _what is his life coming to_ , he doesn’t know when he started to live in a dream—and mouths at Percival’s increasingly obvious erection. There’s a wet spot on the silk, and Credence leaves more, darker purple against the lavender. At the first touch of Credence’s mouth, Percival actually _moans_. His muscles tremble under Credence’s hands.

“I made a mistake,” Percival says, voice low and rough, one hand on Credence’s head. “I should _not_ have worn this many clothes.”

Credence looks up at him. “Oh, I think you’re wearing just the right amount,” he murmurs, tracing the hem of the stockings. Percival’s cock is absolutely straining against the fabric now. And Percival looks impatient. Well, it’s his own fault, he’d come in here to seduce Credence. Time for things to go a little sideways. “What should I do now…daddy?”

Percival’s grip on Credence’s hair tightens. “You know what to do, you _minx_.”

“You didn’t answer my question…” Credence says, sliding his hands up to pull Percival slightly forward. He looks up through his lashes, betting that it’ll make Percival go absolutely weak at the knees.

“Whatever you want,” Percival says. He looks suddenly serious, as though willing Credence to understand him. “Anything, sweetheart. This is for you.”

It comes to Credence slowly, the recall of something that had happened a week and a half ago now. Percival had pushed Credence at just the wrong moment, said something—Credence can’t recall exactly what—and Credence had panicked. Just snapped, freezing like a rabbit in the path of a hound. It had taken Percival too long to notice what happened. The aftermath of _that_ was not pretty.

_“If I’d stopped and asked you what you wanted—”_

Clearly, even if Credence has come to terms with it all and taken it in stride, Percival is still stuck there. And because the man is _physically incapable_ of letting apologies lie, he feels like he has to make it up to Credence in some way.

“Are you sure?” Credence asks, suddenly very worried.

“I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t,” Percival says. He runs his fingers through Credence’s hair, catching on the curls and untangling them.

“You’re going to make me look like a sheep-dog,” Credence warns.

“A handsome sheep-dog,” Percival teases.

Credence kisses Percival’s inner thigh, punctuating it with a pointed lick. And he does it again, when he hears the low sound that Percival makes, abandoning the teasing in favor of doing everything he can to work Percival into a frenzy. At this point Percival is gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles white, as he watches Credence.

Taking a general guess at the construction of what Percival’s wearing, Credence slides his hand up between Percival’s legs to undo the snaps holding the crotch together. It’s not something that’s encountered in men’s underwear, but in this getup Credence isn’t surprised that his guess is correct. The taut fabric comes free and, before Percival can say a word, Credence takes hold of his flushed cock and wraps his lips around it.

Percival groans and his head falls back. Credence watches, his own body throbbing with want, as he swirls his tongue and does his absolute best to drive Percival crazy. He knows Percival well and is still pleasantly stunned when he dips his tongue into Percival’s slit and Percival moans. He’s much louder than Credence ever will be and it’s beautiful as far as Credence is concerned. He lets go of Percival with one hand so he can palm himself, do his best to keep up.

“Credence—fuck—I’m not going to _last_ —”

Credence hums his approval of that and swallows and—Percival is gone, hips bucking forward involuntarily. Credence takes the motion, nearly gagging and fighting that back, swallowing as Percival comes, spilling into Credence’s mouth.

After a moment, Percival’s body goes slack. Credence leans back and wipes his chin. He looks up at Percival, who seems lost for words, and climbs to his feet. His knees ache but he doesn’t mind: it’s a good sort of pain. He leans in to kiss Percival, who returns it languidly, leaving the kiss sloppy and Credence’s mouth wet again.

When Percival breaks away, breathing hard, Credence licks his lips unnecessarily and asks, “Was that good for you, daddy?”

“Yes, sweetheart, it was,” Percival says raggedly. “God…it’s not going to be long before I can’t keep up with you anymore.”

Credence laughs and wipes his chin again on his sleeve. “There’s magic for that, you know.”

“I’m not that old.”

“You’re old enough that I can call you daddy and almost have it be true,” Credence points out, curling his fingers in the laces of the corset and pulling a little. Percival inhales sharply—by his slow smile, Credence infers that it’s all right.

“So,” Percival says, tilting his head and blinking slowly at Credence, “what else do you want?”

“I think it’s only fair,” Credence murmurs, “that since you had me bent over your desk, that I get to have you bent over mine.”

Percival reaches up to tuck Credence’s hair back behind his ear. It’s coming loose, the ribbon holding it back falling away from rough handling. “I think it’d be a miscarriage of justice, honestly,” Percival says, voice smoldering.

Credence lets go of Percival and takes a step back. “Turn around,” he says, and Percival does so, leaning down across the desk, head pillowed on his folded arms. Credence smooths a hand down Percival’s back, unable to stop admiring the way the corset curves him. It’s not an old-fashioned corset meant to practically break a person’s ribs—no, this is a modern garment, only for shape and control, built as the very model of health.

As always Credence is glad that he’s passably proficient in wandless magic. It’s a snap of his fingers to make sure that things are passably hygienic, and a second to find his fingers slicked and ready.

“Ready?” he asks, flattening his free hand over Percival’s lower back, holding the other man still.

“Yes, sweetheart, I am,” Percival says.

At the first press of Credence’s finger Percival falls completely still, obviously trying to make himself relax. Credence curls his finger slightly as he works his way into Percival. He _knows_ the second that he hits the prostate because Percival gasps, shifting against the edge of the desk.

Credence bends forward far enough that he can speak close to Percival’s ear. “Like that?”

Percival nods, and starts to speak, but anything he would have said is cut off by Credence slowly pressing a second finger into him. He’s breathing shortly, sharply, restricted by his posture bent over the desk and by the corset. Credence’s heart races a little at the aborted sounds, the need for more making his head spin a little.

Just at that moment, Credence happens to look up. His gaze flicks over Percival’s scarf hanging on the chair and something clicks in his head. He’s jolted out of the moment and knocked back into the work day that Percival had done his best to end. “Oh!”

“What?” Percival rasps.

“Hang on—I need to write something down, I might have just worked out how the damn scarves got enchanted.”

Percival turns his head to give Credence the best glare he can. “Really? _Now_?”

Credence shrugs. He crooks his fingers just a little, drawing out a small moan from Percival, before withdrawing. “You’re the Director of Magical Security, Percival, I’m sure you’ll agree that work comes before pleasure.”

Percival lets out a strangled groan and slams his forehead against the top of the desk. Muffled by the desk, he growls, “Oh, fine, hurry up!”

Credence trails a finger down the back of Percival’s neck, smirking at the shiver _that_ elicits. “I’ll be quick, daddy,” he says.

“ _Damn it, Credence!_ ”

With a laugh, Credence steps away. He cleans his fingers with a snap and snatches up a piece of paper and pen so he can make sure he doesn’t forget about checking the seams for stitched-in charms that might have caused the issue. He hadn’t thought about it before, though he should have considering how basic jackets with Shield Charms in are made, but maybe this would pan out.

And then he sets it aside for later consideration, turning his attention back to Percival. He rests his hands on Percival’s hips. “One more finger, or—?”

“I think I’m all right,” Percival says. He flashes Credence a smile over his shoulder. “I won’t be walking straight tomorrow, but…”

That’s enough for Credence. He makes short work of the placket of his pants and his own underwear. He doesn’t bother fully undressing—what even is the _point_ , when Percival is still wrapped up like a Goddamn Christmas gift in front of him—only frees his cock. He’s so hard it almost hurts. He barely remembers to conjure more slick for himself before pressing in.

Percival outright moans when Credence enters him, pushing back so that Credence sinks deeper, faster; Credence bites his lip and hisses at the tight heat, shifting his weight and looking for the angle that will make Percival fall apart. He knows when he hits it because Percival’s whole body jerks and he whines, drawn-out and needy, and Credence just about falls apart right then and there.

Keeping his hand pressed against Percival’s lower back, trying to find some purchase on the smooth fabric of the corset, Credence slips into a steady rhythm. He rocks his hips, forcing himself to keep it together as he fucks Percival slowly. He doesn’t want this to go too quickly.

“Fuck—Credence, you don’t even know—you’re so _good_ , fuck—”

If there is one thing Credence loves it’s how much Percival _talks_. He’s so _loud_ and Credence loves it, especially when Credence himself hardly ever makes a sound.

Percival is trying to match Credence’s rhythm but it’s broken, off-tempo, and the change is making Credence dizzy. He’s moving faster, listening to the increasingly incoherent words Percival is saying, unable to take his eyes off of Percival’s white-knuckled hand gripping the far edge of the desk like it’s the only thing anchoring him to reality.

And then Credence shifts his weight just a little, and it must have been just enough because Percival cries out, muffled by the desk, and arches his back a little, the corset creaking under Credence’s hand. He clenches around Credence, every muscle in his body going rigid, and with another few thrusts Credence breaks, too, spending himself inside Percival, the release enough to make his head spin and his legs feel weak.

He slumps over and rests his cheek against the rigid, cool surface of the corset. “This,” Credence says hazily, “is the best idea you’ve had in a long time.”

“Yes,” Percival says. Credence feels him breathing, the rise and fall of his back. “…but I think I need to move, I can’t feel my leg.”

“Oh, damn—sorry,” Credence says, raising himself with difficulty. He snatches up his wand and cleans them both up and pulls himself at least peripherally together.

Percival drops into Credence’s chair and pushes his hair out of his face. Credence can see the line on his thigh, now, where the desk had been digging into him—no wonder his leg was asleep. Even now, just the sight of Percival wearing that lingerie, disheveled from Credence fucking him is enough to make Credence’s cock twitch with renewed interest. He firmly dismisses that: he’s going to have a hard enough time working in this office tomorrow as it is.

Credence circles the desk and leans on it, looking down at Percival. “Was I good, daddy?” he asks, blinking slowly. God. He can feel that it’s nearly nine o’clock by now.

Percival’s arm curves around Credence’s waist, his fingers catching in Credence’s shirt. “Perfect, sweetheart,” he says.

It’s a horrible angle and it makes Credence’s whole back hurt, but he bends to kiss Percival anyway. This isn’t needy or desperate, but tired and sweet. Credence’s lips tingle with every contact. It’s amazing how, even after all this time, Percival still makes him feel like he had the first time that their fingertips brushed on that cold winter street.

And then there’s an ominous crack from behind Credence.

He sits up and whips around, staring at the crate in the corner. One of the boards is bending alarmingly, and out of the crack he can see brightly colored silk. “Percival,” Credence says slowly, “you should grab your clothes.”

Percival is already sweeping the whole bundle of discarded items into his arms, eyeing the crate warily. “I thought you said they had to be around someone’s neck.”

“Only to activate,” Credence says, holding his wand out and backing slowly toward the door.

“There are things you should tell me _before_ we—” Percival starts.

The board lets out a creak.

And then it shatters.

Scarves in fifty brilliant colors erupt into the room in a swirl of flying silk. Percival yells and Credence shoves him toward the door, beating off tassels as he goes, staggering out into the main office and slamming the door behind him. Percival goes crashing to the ground and Credence trips over the rug, hitting the floor on his elbows. But he doesn’t have time to register the sudden stinging pain. He rolls over and casts every warding charm he can think of at the door, and he hears Percival casting guarding jinxes as he swears violently.

Sudden silence descends, except for the faint whispering of silk behind the door.

“I don’t care if I’m sleeping on the couch for the next month, that case _is_ coming up to the Auror Office,” Percival says with a scowl.

Credence looks at him, on the ground, wearing only underthings, clothes scattered about him, and then considers himself, disheveled with rug-burned elbows, and bursts into helpless laughter. He covers his face with his hands, practically howling. This is the most ridiculous situation he’s ever found himself in. “T-take the case,” he somehow gets out between hysterical giggles. “It’s worth it.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Percival says, dignified despite his position. Credence can hear the laugh in his voice, though, and when Credence manages to look up he sees Percival actually grinning at him.

It might be stupendously ridiculous, but Credence absolutely couldn’t ask for a better night.

**Author's Note:**

> Percival is wearing a slightly modified version of female undergarments. The snap crotch was a Real Thing. The modifications mostly consist of removing the floaty legs that go along with step-ins of the period, appropriate for a dress but less so for a suit. 
> 
> Regarding corset shape. This is NOT THE EDWARDIAN PERIOD, OKAY? _Wasp waists are not a thing_. They just aren’t. Percival is wearing a corset meant to flatten and smooth the figure, one which runs from under the bust (honestly did not think through exactly where that hits on him imagine it where you want) all the way down to the hips and juuuuust slightly over. 1920s: the age of Toothpaste Tube Figures for women. A corset that would probably make a man look *even better* in a suit, honestly. (The consensus on whether or not corsets were laced is nonexistent. Some fastened via metal clasps, others had lacings. I have gone with lacings, because this is my fic, and I am allowed to indulge my kinks.)
> 
> Now. 
> 
> There is an anachronism in this fic. 
> 
> Ready?
> 
> The term “ass” probably had not entered common use until the mid-1930s. 
> 
> But you know what?
> 
> I’d rather an anachronism than use “buttocks”. 
> 
> Cock, on the other hand, is attested since the **1600s**. And the word “prostate”? That one, as a [PEER-REVIEWED ACADEMIC JOURNAL REMINDS US](https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/18942121), has been pinging around in its current form since the 1600s as well…but was around since the time of the Ancient Greeks as the term “president”. *cough*
> 
> So. Yeah. Do with all this information what you will, I certainly had my wicked way with it.


End file.
